


A different kind of war

by GreenWaters



Series: His mark on you [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos Whump, Gap Filler, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Missing Scene, Other, POV Constance, Present Tense, s03e06 Death of a Hero, s03e06 The Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenWaters/pseuds/GreenWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos returns wounded to the Garrison after Grimaud's attack to find only Constance and a suspicious letter from Treville. </p><p>  <i>“I can’t see. Read it to me.”</i></p><p>   <i>At the terse command she reaches out and grasps his chin, pushing sweat-soaked hair back from his eyes with her other hand to see the worst of the damage.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A different kind of war

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, I woke up a few hours early this morning, and this short story was in my mind. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Set during s3e6. Athos returns wounded to the Garrison after Grimaud's attack to find only Constance and a suspicious letter from Treville. Story explores some potential tension points between Constance and the Captain.

The supply report slips through Constance’s fingers as the doors slam open, cold air rushing into the storage room. She grasps at the fluttering parchment, hoping to snatch it from the air, but the thunderous voice from the doorway stills her hand.

“Where are they!?”

She half-turns, the sniping rebuke ‘ _ask nicely_ ’ forming on her lips, but it dies away. 

Hands splayed on each doorpost for support and bent almost double, Athos stares up from beneath a tangled fringe, face a shocking mess of blood and bruises.

Words fail her, but she moves forwards, catching him beneath an arm with only the briefest hesitation. 

“Who did this?” It was daylight. With the Garrison awake, the cadets were finishing a late breakfast or out in the courtyard at their training. The streets of Paris were bustling with morning life. Her shock was fading - confusion taking its place. “How-?”

Releasing his death-grip on the doorpost, the Captain grasps her shoulder with a burning hand and turns her roughly to look him in the eyes. “Where - are - they?”

The additional weight almost brings Constance to her knees, but she she keeps her footing, shoving him back a little so that she can reach into her skirts for D’Artagnan’s letter. She has seen Athos like this - fevered and desperate, violence breaking out between the cracks - but has never seen it sober. In the past she had had no patience for it. Sure of the man’s innate integrity, she did not understand the self-recrimination, the doubt, the drinking. But this was something else.

She pushes the letter into his grasping hand, helps him open it when his shaking fingers catch upon the wax. But cursing in frustration he slumps, she staggers, and together they wheel around so that she might set him down upon a barrel. 

“I can’t see. Read it to me.” 

At the terse command she reaches out and grasps his chin, pushing sweat-soaked hair back from his eyes with her other hand to see the worst of the damage. 

He pulls back, resisting her touch. “It’s only blood.”

“Let me see,” she snaps, and squinting, pushes his head back into the light from the doorway. It _is_ only blood and bruising, but shockingly red and raw.

He catches her wrist in an iron grip, making her relinquish her hold on his chin. “Read.”

She obeys, recognising the expression in those wide eyes now for what it was. Fear.

There’s nothing suspicious in the words themselves, the tone and Treville’s signature seeming genuine enough.

When Athos says nothing, sinking further forwards onto the barrel, she loses her patience. “Upstairs,” she orders.

“Treville.”

“I’ll send someone.”

Crossing the courtyard is a trial, but the stairs are _agony_. She buckles several times under his weight, all too aware of half a dozen cadets watching from below, only too willing to help their Captain should he request assistance. But he hides his face behind his hair and only leans on her the harder as they ascend.

She turns her back on him as they enter his office, and opens his clothes chest without asking permission to rummage for a clean shirt. Letting it close with a bang, she breaths to temper her simmering anger. After a sleepless night with a disturbed D’Artagnan twisted up in damp sheets, she had suggested her husband speak to his Captain, his friend, about his doubts over the previous day’s events. Hearing that the approach _had_ been made the night before, and had been ignored - and with a red-eyed D’Artagnan weakly justifying his friend’s silence - she had determined to storm the office this morning to voice her displeasure.

Now she looks around at him, pacing and dripping blood onto the cleanly swept floor of his office, and sighs, determined to shed her rage.

He looks up at her, the letter clutched in his fist. “If they’re in trouble, I will find them.”

“I know you will,” she sighs. “Here. Sit down.” She helps remove his jacket, pulling on the cuffs as though he were a child, and sees the damage to his shirt beneath. “- God - they were trying to kill you.”

She had assumed it was a beating, a warning.

“He,” Athos grits out. “Could you fetch water and a cloth?”

When she returns she notes the change of shirt, wonders what other injuries the man is hiding, but does not comment, does not fuss. She has walked a fine line since the return of the Musketeers to the Garrison. For years her word had been law, and now the Garrison has its Captain again, and she and Athos are sidestepping each other, occasionally treading on each other's toes. She does not resent him for it (at least not often), but it is new, and will take some getting used to. 

Fighting with his determined efforts to prepare his musket and bayonet, she has only half finished cleaning his face when Treville appears in the doorway.

“What’s so urgent it could-”

Athos tenses beneath her hands, Treville’s scrutiny of his injuries stilling his preparations. 

“Did you write that?”

As Treville finishes studying the letter, she looks up in hope*. Perhaps it was a legitimate order - perhaps D’Artagnan is safe.

“No.”

She turns her face away, and feels Athos’ hand close over hers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Would love to hear what you think. Apologies if it is a little rough, but it was exciting to see an idea come together so quickly.
> 
> There are two more stories available in this series.


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